Empty Tape
by Dayanara
Summary: -CrowleyCentric- A certain demon talks to a reporter in a London café.


**A/N** Didn't start out as a GO fic, and I think it shows a little, but what the hey!

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"Thing is…" he mutters drunkenly, "thing is…"

I buy him another drink. One thing I've found during my studies is that his kind aren't very talkative. Or very easy to find. I travelled the entire world looking for one, then I finally come home and find him living in a flat three streets away from my own.

"Thing is," he slurs, "sometimes I wonder if it wasn't all worth it." He waves a finger vaguely in my direction, eyes staring fuzzily at my mouth as I sip at my coffee. "I mean… Heaven was, you know, i' was nice and all that… but i' got awful cold and… borin' after the first few decades…"

I nod sympathetically, thinking that he looks awful, well, _normal_, for a demon. Dark hair, dark suit, shiny snakeskin shoes. His eyes are a surprisingly warm brown. He doesn't look the least bit evil.

I pick up my cup, and find the coffee inside scalding hot. I drop it quickly and look up to find him watching me, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Maybe he isn't as drunk as he seems.

When he grins at me his teeth are sharp and white as snow. He gulps at his drink, but when he replaces it on the table it's as full as it was a minute ago. He winks at me, and at the table next to us a young woman stands up and throws her mug of hot chocolate at the man she was sat with, ripping a large engagement ring off her finger and tossing it to the ground before storming out.

I look away hastily and make sure the miniature tape recorder in my pocket is still there. Admittedly, not much has been said in the last thirty minutes, but there's plenty of time left on it. Plenty of time.

"Cold?" I ask, intrigued. It wasn't a word I would have used if asked what I though Heaven would be like. He nods and takes another mouthful of alcohol, before he frowns and turns his attention to his manicured fingernails.

"S'just… s'all white, y'know? Not like Hell… And being an angel gets real borin' after a while, like I said. Stuck in a big, cold, damp place full o' do-gooders and preachers."

"So you were an angel?" I ask. I try to keep my mounting excitement from my voice. I was right!

"Yeah, one o' the first," he muttered, He looks forlornly at the table. I can't take it any longer. Finally, I burst out with the question I've been wanting to ask all evening.

"What's it like to Fall?"

He cocks one slim eyebrow and rests his elbows on the table.

"Like you're being torn into a million tiny pieces," he says dangerously, no trace of a slur in his voice. "Like you're being ripped out of your body and you can't breathe and you can't see and you can't feel, and you never will again."

"Oh," I whisper, looking down at the table.

He's staring at me; I can feel his eyes burning a hole in the top of my head., and when I finally look up his face is expressionless. I look down again, staring into the swirling froth on the top of my coffee.

"I never meant to Fall," he cries suddenly, voice getting worryingly close to a whine, "It just kinda… happened. No-one likes being bossed about. Only, when I got there it wasn't so bad. Definitely wasn't cold." He pauses, looking thoughtful, "'Cept… I still get bossed about. It's just more fun carrying out the instructions."

He leers at me and the coffee machine behind the counter explodes.

Suddenly, he stands up and starts to walk away, but then comes back and grabs the pair of sunglasses lying on the beer-sticky table. As his slides them onto his nose I think I see a glint of yellow where before there was brown, but I can't be sure.

He mutters something as he brushes past me that could be 'I hate reporters', but when I turn around with an angry retort on the tip of my tongue he isn't there.

There's nothing there except a slate-grey feather and the lingering smell of sulphur.

I get up out of my chair and pick it up. It's soft in my hands and I reach into my pocket and turn off the tape recorder before slipping the feather into my bag.

When I get home the last hour is a blur. I shake my head. Someone must have slipped something into my coffee. I slip my hand into my pocket, fretting, and come up with a small tape recorder.

Confused and worried, I put the tape into the player and listen to it. It's silent, there's nothing on it. I close my eyes and sit there for at least half an hour. Just as I'm about to give up on it sound crackles into life.

A ghostly chuckle, sounding very far away, then a voice that I don't recognise, fuzzy and indistinct.

_Like you're being torn into a million tiny pieces. Like you're being ripped out of your body and you can't breathe and you can't see and you can't fee__l, and you never will again._

When I play the tape through again there really is nothing there.

It's just another empty tape.

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**A/N** Reviews are always appreciated, leave me a note.


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